her photos.
Maybe she should call her blog Hannah’s Lack of Adventure.
As she stood and paced, she noticed a display case on the far side of the room. There were trophies and awards, of course, from his racing, and pictures of Brody with various celebrities, friends, and even one with a US president. A scale model of almost every car he’d raced sat on a shelf.
There was a section of the wall devoted to these shelves. Mostly family pictures and personal items. Brody, she assumed, as a boy with his father, holding up a huge fish. His enormous, toothy grin made her chuckle. He must have been around seven, she guessed.
Hannah had been ten when her father died, and she still felt a slight, dull pain when she thought about it. He’d been a good man and the moon and the stars to her. Her dad had been the kind of solid, dependable man she’d hoped to find for herself. He’d farmed his land, provided for them and worked part-time at the local feed store in summer to earn extra income.
She remembered him as always being happy and laughing, telling her to work hard and do what was right. Those words had stood by her when he’d had a fatal heart attack, and there was no way she and her mother could keep the farm. So Hannah had done the right thing and worked diligently to support herself and her mother as soon as she was able.
She reached out, touching the picture of Brody with his dad. He’d never said anything about his family, which made sense. Theirs was a particular kind of relationship.
Not a relationship at all, really.
There were also some scouting badges—another surprise—and several sports awards, including high school baseball and college swimming trophies. On a table near that display were pictures of Brody in mountain-climbing gear with a group of people all clearly celebrating some sort of victory, and one of him...surfing?
And there were pictures of a very young Brody by a race car—his first one? He had to be only twenty or so.
She’d only known him as a champion driver, but clearly there was a lot more to the man. He’d done and accomplished a lot. She looked at some of the framed news articles and magazine covers. Words that came up often were things like brash, risky, and pushing the edge.
Brody said you were nice.
What did Hannah have to put on her walls? Her diplomas, certainly, and she was proud of those, along with her certified public accountant recognition. She had some pictures from school—mainly her and Abby and a few other friends having fun in Ithaca and at the senior dance. A few 4-H awards from the local fair. Not that she was ashamed of any of those moments—she held them dear, in fact—but in her thirty years, what else had she managed to accomplish?
Her work had been her focus. Creating the stable, perfect future that she had always planned on. She’d be thirty-one in a few months, and she had no job, husband, kids or house.
And here she was, cleaning Brody’s place and making him dinner and wondering why everyone, even the strangers on her blog, only thought of her as nice.
Maybe it was time to do something that wasn’t so nice? Something daring and un-Hannah-like.
The question was...what?
* * *
BRODY’S HEAD FELL back against the headrest of the seat when he saw Hannah’s car still in his driveway. Man, she was stubborn. And caring, warm, generous, gorgeous, sexy, funny... Brody bit off a curse, making himself stop there.
He didn’t want to lie to her. If he’d been a bad bet before, he wasn’t anyone Hannah would be interested in now. She needed security, stability. He’d never been a poster child for either quality, but that was especially true at the moment.
He could only think of one way to convince her to go. It was dangerous, but it was his only play, really. Entering the house through the back door, he stopped short for a second, taking in the gleaming counters and lack of clutter. Something smelled mouthwatering, and his gaze traveled to the pot still on the stove. There was a pie on the counter and he walked over to read a note next to it—“Jenna dropped this off.”
Brody shook his head, and then he checked the messages blinking on the phone in the kitchen. He kept the landline precisely so he could screen calls like this; only friends and family used his cell number. He winced, thinking about Hannah overhearing the messages, especially the last one.
Since the nightclub story, he’d gotten several offers like that. Weekly.
Speaking of Hannah, where was she?
“Hannah?”
He walked farther into the house and discovered her sitting on his sofa, quiet, staring at her laptop. There was a bottle of wine—half-finished—and an empty glass on the table next to her. When he came in, she just looked up at him.
“Oh, hi,” she said, her brow furrowed as she turned her attention back to the computer screen.
That was all.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“No. I’m boring.”
Brody didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t that. He assumed she’d be ticked off or concerned or whatever, but this threw him. So he went over and sat next to her, and saw on the screen, a page about...
“Why are you reading about alligator wrestling?”
“Because it’s exciting and crazy, and risky. Meaning, all of the things I’m not. A decent photojournalist needs to take risks. So I found this place that teaches people to alligator wrestle, and it’s not far from here. Do you know about it?”
“Hold on a second. You mean you’re actually considering learning how to wrestle an alligator?” Brody’s tone was incredulous, but he couldn’t help it.
Wait. Photojournalist? Hannah was an accountant. Wasn’t she?
“How much wine did you have, Hannah?”
“Only a few glasses. See, on the website, they take you through it step-by-step. Here’s a picture of a woman doing it, so it’s not just for men,” Hannah said, pointing.
Brody looked at the screen. “She’s twice your size—and a game warden, according to the caption, Hannah. Have you ever seen a real alligator?”
“No, but I have to do something, and soon. You can’t help me, and people aren’t going to look at my blog for pretty pictures of ocean waves or... Hey, wait. Do people surf down here? There are sharks, right?”
Brody put up a hand, interrupting her. “Let’s back up a few steps. One, why do you think you’re boring? Two, why are you trying to commit suicide by wildlife? And three, what’s this about being a photojournalist?”
She took a deep breath and poured some more wine. Brody suspected she’d had enough, but she was a big girl.
“I quit my job,” she said after a swallow, and then told him the whole story, showing him her blog and some pictures of oyster farmers and kids in a decrepit playground in Atlanta. She was pretty good, and he was about to compliment the pictures, but she slammed the laptop shut.
